


Say My Name (If You See Me)

by sysrae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cultural Differences, Dom/sub Undertones, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Lavellan has vitiligo, M/M, Massage, Touch-Starved, and elves who all think you're the wrong kind of elf, conspicuous vallaslin, cultural isolation, mild size kink, obvs, religious differences, the author is a dork, the loneliness of being a dalish inquisitor surrounded by shems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7188545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhasa Lavellan is sick of Andraste. The Iron Bull helps him to feel like a person again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Bull meets Rhasa Lavellan on the Storm Coast, his first startled thought is that he’s the hottest Viddathari he’s seen in forever. A glaring mistake, given that Seeker Pentaghast is standing all of two feet away at the time, but how many Dalish elves wear Qunari armour? Yet there he is in a shokra-taar, chest straps crossed over firm pectorals, gold bands around his elegant neck and heavy red pauldrons guarding his muscular shoulders. Bull stares at him unabashedly, drinking in the rainslick sheen of his dark skin, the shocking harlequin contrast of his vallaslin; the elegant nose, full lips and yellowgreen eyes, all set off by a scruff of burnt umber hair.

And then the skirmish around him snaps back into focus, and he’s fighting and roaring and laying out enemies like he’d never slipped and hesitated, never felt the Qunlat forming on his tongue as he mistook the Herald of Andraste for an agent of the Ben-Hassrath.

He doesn’t notice Rhasa fight, but when they’re done, the rogue is wiping his twin blades clean on a clump of spindleweed, so he must’ve done something right. Bull stretches and pops his back, disquieted. Misreading Lavellan at a distance is one thing; missing him in a fight up close is another. Doing both together makes his blind side itch like a blow’s about to floor him, but there’s nothing to dodge except himself, and so he sucks it up and strolls on over, calm as calm can be.

They talk, of course: Bull makes his pitch and a mental note to tell Krem good job for making his, and tries not to focus overmuch on how Rhasa’s lips never quite close all the way, a flash of white tooth always faintly visible. It’s likewise impossible not to notice his vallaslin, which is easily the boldest design Bull’s ever seen. It bisects his whole face, the left side the colour of milky tea, the right the same gorgeous earth tone as the rest of him – except, of course, where twining, symmetrical vine patterns crawl over cheek, chin, nose and brow, each pattern rendered in the dominant shade of the alternate side. It ought to make him look like a motile Orlesian mask, except that his eyes are too big and bright, the face itself too full of expressive character. Instead, it makes Bull want to run a clawtip over each thin thorny twist, to score new lines and chase them with his tongue.

Ah. _There’s_ the blow.

Lavellan hires the Chargers. Of course he does. And when Bull finally summons enough wit to joke that the Herald sure knows how to dress to impress – “Or impress a Qunari, anyway,” – Lavellan grins and shows his sharp incisors, light eyes gleaming like serpentstone.

“They can call me the Herald all they want; if I must be yoked to symbolism beyond my own, I reserve the right to choose the style of harness.” And he tugs the front strap of the shokra-taar, the leather edge brushing a nipple.

_Fuck_ , Bull thinks, but does not say. His answer is a belly-laugh, the better to disguise his lust.

He can’t believe he’s getting paid for this. He wonders what it’ll cost him.

He wonders if he cares.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, Rhasa’s heartily sick of Andraste.

He’s never born humans any particular ill-will: his clan is more open to commerce with shems than most, and while he’s always felt a flash of Dalish outrage at the lack of respect the Chantry shows to mages, it’s never been that personal an issue. As aloof as he once held himself from his kin – he was often solitary by choice, even when he wasn’t off hunting – he always remained engaged with the world itself, reading whatever he could lay hands on and frequently choosing the company of strangers over that of those who raised him. Indeed, it was this particular combination of curiosity and reserve that prompted the Keeper to send him to the Conclave, just as she’d formerly sent him on other, less urgent reconnaissance missions. Back then, whenever he tired of talking, he was always able to retreat to the privacy of an aravel or the comfort of some tome or novel; able, should he crave it, to seek out those with whom he shared common blood.

But ever since Haven fell to Corypheus – ever since his advisors declared him Inquisitor – he’s been struggling to bear up under the crushing weight of being the only Dalish within a week’s march of Skyhold. Oh, there are other elves, one of whom really does call herself Dalish, but she’s been away from her clan for so long – and so happily, it seems – that she doesn’t even miss it, let alone hold herself to the customs of her namesake. There’s Skinner, whose habitual angry silence can be oddly soothing at times, but it’s not what Rhasa craves. Sera is great fun when he has the energy to deal with her, but in this respect, she’s an Andrastian who seems furious at the very idea of _elf_ as a separate identity, while Solas, for all he purports to care about ancient elves, is scathing in his disdain for the Dalish. Almost everyone else – Vivienne, Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, Blackwall – even, gods help him, Varric and Dorian, who at least have the grace to laugh about it – _everyone else_ is Andrastian. Except for Cole, who’s a spirit, and hardly a great conversationalist even when he’s not reciting people’s innermost thoughts. Cole doesn’t count; not for this.

Which leaves the Iron Bull.

Objectively – when he can be bothered to be objective, that is; an increasingly rare occurrence – Rhasa knows he’d likely be drawn to Bull anyway. The sheer _size_ of him, and that deep, sly voice, hit buttons he’s long since stopped pretending he doesn’t have. Just being alone in a room with him sends a thrill up his spine, and maybe he’s reading it all wrong, maybe he’s spent too many nights alone in the wilderness with nothing to dwell on but fantasies pulled from the more sordid copper dreadfuls the traders bring, but Mythal take him if he doesn’t want _Bull_ to take him. Even before the Conclave, there was an itch under his skin like new growth, an urgent whisper of _it’s been too long it’s been too long_ , and now there’s a glowing mark on his hand and no one touches him at all who can avoid it, flinching from the flashing as their eyes graze the points of his ears, as they stiffen whenever he dares to say _I do not share the faith that makes you put your faith in me_ ; he’s like a walking alienage to them, a neat parcel of convenient elf with the Maker painted on –

And then there’s Bull, who alone of the inner circle has never once asked him about Andraste, if he truly thinks he’s the Herald, if he trusts the Maker or the Chantry or fuck knows what else; Bull, who is as alien among their company as Rhasa himself, big and loud and conspicuous and joyful with it, for all that he’s turned Tal-Vashoth and lost a piece of his life forever; Bull, who wasn’t in the Herald’s Rest when Rhasa went in search of him a half hour back, resulting in his being waylaid by Cullen, Josephine and paperwork in short order, which he now clutches glumly (the paperwork, not Cullen and Josephine, although hah! _There’s_ a thought), ascending the stairs to his room with a heart like lead.

He is so very tired of being Inquisitor.

Tired enough, certainly, that when he looks up and sees Bull sitting on his bed, his first thought is that he’s hallucinating from exhausted optimism. The Bull smiles crookedly, one eye bright.

“So, boss. I figure you know why I’m here.” The grin turns lascivious, warm. “You want to ride the Bull.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was never going to be just about sex. Part of Bull knew that the moment he first decided to make his move, but his Ben-Hassarth career would’ve been for shit if he didn’t know how to compartmentalise, and it’s easier to lie to himself than not. His façade lasts for as long as it takes to back Rhasa Lavellan up against the wall of his own apartments, both wrists pinned in one of Bull’s palms; as long as it takes for Rhasa to flex against his grip and whisper, flushed and trembling, “Please stay.”

 _Kadan_ , Bull thinks. _Kadan. Kadan_. This time, he keeps the Qunlat in by kissing Rhasa deep and slow, and _oh_ , the elf’s not new at this, the way he kisses back; it might’ve been a while for him – Bull gets that vibe; gets off on it a little, even – but there’s experience underneath the eager need, and that’s hot in a different way.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin beneath Rhasa’s ear. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” Rhasa gasps, “You, I need – ah! – I need you to say my name. Please, Bull. _Please_.”

Almost, Bull laughs, which would be a mistake. It’s such a superficially cheesy line, but the sheer rawness of the delivery hints at something else, and all at once it hits him like a hammerblow that he’s never heard a single member of the Inquisition address Rhasa by anything other than his title or, very rarely, as Lavellan. He’s seen Rhasa’s name in print on Inquisition documents, heard him introduce himself by forename alone to frightened refugees, upset children, worried farmers on a dozen different occasions, but nobody ever uses it with him; never so much as acknowledges it. Shit, even Bull called him _boss_ just now, and as he shifts and raises his grip, and Rhasa arches against the stone, his eyes are wide and wet and pleading: _see me, see me, I’m still in here, I’m more than what they’d have me be and do, I’m here._  

“Rhasa,” Bull breathes, and Rhasa sobs a breath in a way that’s fucking heartbreaking. _Vashedan_ , they’re monsters all to have denied him this. Why didn’t he see it sooner? Bull kisses him again, a soft apology; murmurs it over and over as his lips brush every curve and spike of Lavellan’s vallaslin. “Rhasa. Rhasa. Rhasa. Rhasa.”

And Rhasa shuts his eyes and shakes, thin tears running down his cheeks; Bull licks them away and presses closer, the jut of Rhasa’s cock hard against his thigh, then sucks a gentle mark onto his throat, shivering all over at the way Lavellan groans.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Bull says, his own voice rough with want. “I’m gonna step back in a moment, and you’re gonna strip for me and lie down on the bed. If I do anything you don’t like or you want to back up a bit, you say _katoh_ , and I stop, no questions asked. Otherwise, I’m gonna give you _exactly_ what you deserve. Okay?”

Rhasa’s eyes are blown. “Yes,” he manages, and when Bull finally drops his wrists, he sways where he stands, hands trembling as he unbuckles his vest, gaze constantly darting up to Bull like he can’t believe Bull wants to look at him. But Bull can’t look away, and when Rhasa finally stands naked before him – lean and muscular, hard in every sense – Bull takes a good long moment to savour the sight.

It’s then that he notices the odd light patches on Rhasa’s otherwise brown skin: a creamy-tan splotch in the crook of his elbow, a spackled pattern over his right hip and thigh, a few odd spots on ribs and shin. They’re almost exactly the same colour as the ink of his vallaslin, and Bull wonders if they’re some odd type of tattoo. Then Rhasa catches him looking and flushes anew, his shoulders hunching inwards.

“It’s not an illness,” he mutters, clearly self-conscious. “My skin just… fades in places.”

Bull steps close to him; tips his chin up with a fingertip, guiding Rhasa to look at him. He studies his vallaslin again, and for the first time catches the faint shadow beneath the ink on the left side.

“That’s why you chose this pattern?” he asks, as carefully as he can. “To hide your marks?”

“I was mocked,” Rhasa whispers. “The Keeper was kind, but the others… I thought, if I made it part of my vallaslin – if they saw me endure a full design in honour of Elgar’nan without crying out – that they might honour me for it. Instead, they thought me presumptuous. I was –” he swallows, stops, begins again, “– that is, I became accustomed to my own company, or that of strangers who didn’t know the truth. I thought I preferred to be alone.” A note of stubborn pain crept into his voice. “If you would prefer to go, having seen – if it displeases you –”

“Rhasa,” Bull says, and just his name, said fondly, chokes him off to a whimper. “You could never displease me.” And then, to shift the mood, he gives Lavellan a playful swat on his speckled haunch and nods towards the bed, his voice mock-stern. “Now go lie down. I know what you need from me.”

Rhasa complies with the eagerness of relief, and if Bull hadn’t been hard already, the sight of Rhasa laid out on his stomach, head resting on his folded arms, legs slightly spread, would be enough to get him there. He sheds his own gear quickly, harness and belt and boots and brace and pants – though not before removing the vial of oil from his pocket – and kneels up between Lavellan’s thighs, his own girth nudging them further apart.

He’s dreamed about fucking Lavellan here, just like this. But there’ll be plenty of time for that later, and what Rhasa needs now, more than anything, is to be put back in himself, reminded that he’s a person. The way he cats into even the barest touch without seeming to notice betrays his skin-hunger – Bull eyes his anchor-hand; notes that it’s fisted closed, though its fellow is not – and so he slicks his palms with oil, lets it warm a bit, then digs his thumbs into the iron muscle of Lavellan’s shoulders, massaging out the tension.

“What are you –” Rhasa starts, then breaks off with a lengthy moan that’s damn near obscene enough to get him arrested in fucking _Orlais_ , where obscenity is the national pastime. Bull rumbles in pleased sympathy, working over every crick and knot he finds.

Rhasa pants beneath him, hips shifting in a squirm half pain, half pleasure, and very decidedly sexual. Bull files that delicious information away and keeps going.

“That’s it, Rhasa. Let it out. Relax. You’re safe here. I see you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. It’s all okay.”

With that, it’s like a damn breaking. “ _Ma vhenan_ ,” Rhasa gasps. “Bull, _ma vhenan, ma serannas, ir tel’him, ma melava halani e lathbora viran –_ ”

Bull doesn’t know any Elvhen beyond a few choice expletives and the word for thanks, which he recognises amidst Rhasa’s urgent babble, but realises instantly that his comprehension isn’t the point. This, too, the Inquisition has taken from its putative Herald: the freedom to speak his own language. Not that Bull has anyone around who speaks much Qunlat beside the smattering Dorian’s picked up on his own initiative, but at least he’s had the excuse of Ben-Hassrath reports to keep him using it daily, and it’s not like anyone’s gonna say shit to him about speaking it whenever he gets the urge. But he’s seen the way people react on those rare occasions when Rhasa slips in a few Dalish terms: their smiles go fixed, or they flinch like they’d forgotten he was an actual elf, or they turn awkward and embarrassingly overeager to praise him for it as though it’s a party trick.

Acting on instinct, Bull responds in Qunlat – “ _Na’thek, kadan. Maraas shokra,_ ” – and even though he’s pretty sure Rhasa doesn’t understand a word of it, the elf jerks under his hands and whimpers gratitude over and over, “ _Ma serannas, ma seannas, ma serannas. Ir tel’him._ ”


	4. Chapter 4

Under Bull’s hands, Rhasa loses all sense of time. He goes boneless, grief and weight drifting out of him with each press of the Qunari’s strong hands. But it’s the words that flay him open: words in Qunlat and Elvhen, because _Bull understands_ , Bull sees who’s buried under the Inquisitor, the dappled Dalish hunter with a name instead of a title. Bull sees, and Bull stays anyway, massaging down his arms and back, across his hips and ass and thighs and calves; even scoots down the bed and rolls Rhasa over to rub his feet – he almost screams with pleasure-pain at the press in his arches – then slides back up his trembling body, pins his hands back over his head and massages them, too. Which Rhasa didn’t even realise was something you _could_ to do hands, until Bull pinches the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, and an aching goodhurt shoots up his arms and neck and into his temples, like pulling on one of those clever sailor’s knots that holds against a tempest unless tugged just so, and then unravels in moments.

Throughout it all, they both stay hard, and when Bull finally finishes the massage – “You can touch me now, if you want,” he rasps – Rhasa instantly reaches down to where Bull’s thick thighs bracket his narrow hips, and wraps his two slim hands around both their cocks together. Bull groans, horned head tipping back in pleasure, then shifts his weight, reaching back to rest his big hands on Rhasa’s thighs. “Fuck, yeah,” he pants, the oil transferring easily from Rhasa’s slicked-up body to Bull’s. “Rhasa, fuck –”

“ _Bull_ ,” Rhasa groans, and jacks them both as Bull fucks into his grasp.

As pent up as they are, it doesn’t take long; Rhasa falls over the edge within thirty strokes, and Bull follows a scant few later. Their joint spill makes a mess of Rhasa’s chest. Bull admires this handiwork, then licks him clean without prompting, a lascivious grin on his face, and in his floating, post-orgasmic haze, Rhasa is left fighting the urge to make a joke about mother cows cleaning their calves.

When it’s done, Bull hesitates, looking Rhasa up and down with that single, assessing eye.

“You want me to stay?” he asks, oddly tentative.

“Please,” Rhasa says and lifts his hips for Bull to ruck the blankets out from under his tired body. Bull grins, relieved, and obliges gladly, lying down and pulling the covers across them both in a single deft manoeuvre. Rhasa feels too floaty for shame, and promptly pillows his head on Bull’s chest, smiling as the big Qunari tucks him close.

“You’re very warm,” Rhasa mumbles, pressing his face into scarred, grey skin. “Next time, will you fuck me, too?”

“Yeah,” Bull says, and drops a kiss on his temple. As drifty and vague as Rhasa is, the fondness in Bull’s voice is unmistakable. “Whatever you want, _kadan_.”     

**Author's Note:**

> The world is a trashfire today and I took refuge in headcanons, so have some queer smut and FEELINGS.
> 
> For the curious, Rhasa Lavellan is my current Inquisitor, and looks like this: http://fozmeadows.tumblr.com/post/145492964621/guess-who-started-a-new-game-of-inquisition-this
> 
> This is my first time playing a Dalish Inquisitor, and I have a lot of feels about how isolated that makes them from the rest of the inner circle, given the whole "surrounded by Andrastians and Dalish-hating elves" thing, and how the Iron Bull is really the only LI who has any kind of handle on that sort of alienation. SO.


End file.
